


It's Kind Of A Fetish

by andreaphobia



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Basketball Jersey, Borrowing Clothes, Dirty Fetishes, Irredeemable Filth, M/M, Masturbation, Porn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia/pseuds/andreaphobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aomine really wants to see Kuroko wearing his jersey. Just once!</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Kind Of A Fetish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skyfireflies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyfireflies/gifts).



> Edited some since the first time.

 

 

Picture, if you will, the thing that is currently making Daiki feel as though he’s blown a blood vessel in his brain.

It’s Tetsu, yes—the sight of Tetsu does sometimes have the peculiar effect of draining all the blood from Daiki’s brain—but on this particular occasion, there’s a little more to it than that.

It’s Tetsu seated on the floor of the fourth gym, legs splayed out in front of him, with a gap of exactly one meter (no more, no less) between Daiki’s trembling fingertips and Tetsu’s toes, which flex and curl in his white school socks.

It’s Tetsu wearing Daiki’s jersey, which is 1) several sizes too large for him and 2) most definitely has not been washed since they had practice earlier that evening, and he’s sort of—pinching the fabric between his fingers, and rubbing the jersey into his chest and _gasping_ and—well, that’s about the point where Daiki’s brain breaks down.

How they got here to begin, though—that's another story altogether. Let’s start there.

-

Part one is getting Tetsu to agree to making the deal in the first place.

Which is harder than you might think, actually, because Tetsu—whatever else he might be—is one suspicious bastard. On top of that, Kise keeps putting Tetsu on his guard with his creepy and excessive enthusiasm. Not helping the cause, that one, not at all. Kise doesn’t seem to realize that Tetsu’s not about to step into any obvious traps; he’s far too _tricksy_ for that. And he’s also prone to asking difficult questions which will blow the most well-laid plans full of holes, such as,

“...Why?”

“Because I—” Here Daiki stops in the middle of blurting out _Because I want you to wear something that belongs to me_ , realizing in the nick of time that one false step could be the doom of all his scheming. “Because it’d... uh... it’d look... really, _really_ good on you,” he equivocates.

Tetsu seems unmoved, but Daiki presses on anyway. (Maybe a little bribery will do it.)

“I’ll buy you vanilla shakes for a week,” he bargains.

Tetsu only raises an eyebrow, as if to say, _Do you think my time comes that cheap?_

“A _month_ ,” Daiki amends, stifling the dying scream his wallet emits by slapping his hand down over his pocket.

At that, Tetsu gives him a funny look, but eventually, when no one’s looking, he goes to bump his forehead against Daiki’s upper arm, resting it there for just a moment, brief but affectionate. To anyone else, it’d look like an accident—but Daiki knows better, and that's enough of an answer for him.

Part two is negotiating the terms, discreetly, over dinner, while Murasakibara chomps away obliviously to Daiki’s left and Kise is temporarily distracted by Akashi’s new training schedule to Tetsu’s right.

“No touching, please,” Tetsu says, like a security guard in a museum, even as he’s reaching across the table to appropriate Daiki’s juice.

“Why not?” Daiki demands.

“It wasn’t in the deal,” Tetsu says, sipping away beatifically at the drink which formerly belonged to Daiki. Next to him, Kise has finally dragged his attention away from the train wreck that is talking to Akashi about anything and is ranting about “indirect kisses”. Midorima just tells him to pipe the fuck down.

Upon reflection, though, Daiki realizes Tetsu’s right. He’d only asked Tetsu to wear his jersey so he could see it, but made no stipulations about, say, holding him down and then groping the hell out of him. Trust Tetsu to find the flaw in his plan and then rub it in, too. Well, whatever. He can deal with that later.

Part three is dodging the rest of the team at the end of the night to circle back to campus. Normally, this wouldn’t be so tough since the two of them are in the habit of walking home together anyway, except that Kise seems to have gone into full cockblocking mode—it’s almost like he _knows_ shit is going down, and he’s determined to stop it.

Tetsu is, as always, tranquil as a zen monk. Daiki, on the other hand, finds it a little harder to clamp down on his temper—he’s not about to let this get away from him, not now, not this late in the game—but he manages to calm himself a little, looking at Tetsu’s placid expression. Sometimes you just have to suck it up and get on with it, even if that means somehow shaking off an extremely dedicated tail named Kise.

When they finally arrive, he has to give Tetsu a boost over the locked school gate before clambering after him. The gym, like the rest of the school, is absolutely deserted at a quarter to midnight. They dump their things over by the benches, and Tetsu strolls casually out to the middle of the court while Daiki digs around in his gym bag for his jersey. He locates it, all balled up at the bottom like it knows it’s about to be used for something very perverted indeed, and turns round to toss it to Tetsu.

“It stinks,” Tetsu says, flatly, as he catches it.

 _Deal with it_ , Daiki starts to say, only Tetsu doesn’t really seem to be bothered by that fact at all; in fact he’s unrolling it, and lifting it to his face so he can bury his nose in it and _sniff_ and... and...

And if Daiki wasn’t hard before this moment, if he was nervous about this at all or trying to figure out how this was all even going to work—well, the sight of Tetsu’s chest rising and falling, his nostrils flaring as he breathes in the smell of Daiki’s sweat drives pretty much all coherent thought from his mind.

Daiki starts forward abruptly, then checks himself so hard he nearly trips over his own feet.

“No touching,” Tetsu reminds him, blithely, the lower half of his face still buried in sweaty fabric. Daiki swallows, hard, around the lump in his throat, and tries to form some sort of response, but all that comes out is a truncated grunt, like he’s stubbed his toe, or like he’s staring, drooling, at his best friend while his erection threatens to punch a hole right through the front of his school uniform trousers.

Tetsu just, well, _looks_ at him. He has a way of doing that.

He sinks slowly to the ground, and Daiki follows suit, dropping to his knees with a ‘thump’ that aches a little—but is nothing compared to the fierce ache in certain other parts of him. Tetsu sets the jersey aside, for the moment, shrugging off his blazer and then dropping it in a pile on the floor. Next comes the tie; he undoes the knot with deft fingers, and then extracts it from his collar, leaving it folded neatly on top of his jacket. By the time he gets to the buttons of his shirt, Daiki is trembling like a kid on Christmas morning with barely-restrained anticipation. But he never says a word—the silence between them is so thick that it’s buzzing in his ears like the low hum of static. The gym that’s normally filled with the squeak of shoes on polished wood, with the sound of voices and laughter—is, just for tonight, a quiet place for two boys and their dirty little secret.

Finally, Tetsu drags his shirt back off his shoulders, and leaves it on top of the rest of his discarded clothes. He’s not blushing, not exactly, but he’s not meeting Daiki’s eyes, either—then again, that might be weird, staring into Daiki’s eyes while stripping all his clothes off. Why is this special, Daiki wonders, dizzily, staring at Tetsu’s bare chest, when they see each other basically naked in the locker rooms all the time? Why is this different? But he can’t complete the thought, because then Tetsu’s pulling the jersey over his head—Teikouchuu, number 6—shoving his head up through the neckhole and then tugging it the rest of the way down over himself. It is, as expected, way too big; the arm holes hang down almost to his waist, and the bottom of it is pooled around his lap in folds.

“... It doesn’t fit,” Tetsu announces, flatly, running a hand down over his chest, as though trying to smooth it out.

The deadpan delivery of this obvious statement startles a laugh out of Daiki, breaking the tension a little.

“Did you think it would?” he says, grinning. “I’m not a midget like you.”

Tetsu ignores this, hands seeking something beneath the jersey. He seems to be fumbling with his belt, trying to get it undone. That wasn’t part of the deal, but Daiki isn’t about to open his big mouth and complain. Still, he wasn’t exactly expecting Tetsu’s underpants to come off at the same time. Tetsu pulls it all down over his hips, and then kicks his trousers over so they land in a heap on the floor somewhere near Daiki. He’s naked from the waist down, now, and Daiki can see the lump that his erection makes under the folds of the jersey. The sight of this... makes him go hot and cold all over, makes his skin tingle; Tetsu is hard, he’s hard and he’s wearing Daiki’s shirt and sitting pantsless on the floor of the gym and— _fuck_.

“If only I wasn’t a midget,” Tetsu says, coolly, his voice echoing a little around the gym, though he can’t hide how he’s flushing down to his chest. “Then you’d be able to see what you want, wouldn’t you, Aomine-kun?”

“Tetsu,” Daiki rasps, now fumbling with his own belt.

“Nn?”

“Shut up.”

He gets his fly open, reaches into his own boxers to pull his cock out, and god, it’s a relief to have that finally free instead of crammed into a tight space. He notes how Tetsu’s eyes slide down to it, even though he seems to be trying not to look, and smirks as he wraps long fingers around its length, giving himself a few good strokes.

“Like what you see?” he says, unable to stop himself from grinning.

Tetsu, being Tetsu, doesn’t answer—he just reaches down, grabbing the bottom of the jersey to pull it up to his face, which also has the side effect of exposing first his thighs, then his cock; slender but long, pointing up towards the ceiling. He breathes in again, deeply, practically smothering himself with the fabric of that jersey, and Daiki watches his cock jump at the same time, twitching like he... like he’s getting off on Daiki’s scent...

Daiki’s own cock throbs, painfully, and he squeezes it a little like he’s trying to calm it down, then reaches out with his other hand to seize the fabric of Tetsu’s discarded trousers, digging fingers into it violently with a barely audible growl. He’s always known Tetsu to fight dirty, but if this isn't blatant _cheating_ , he doesn't know what is. He can only stare, utterly spellbound, as Tetsu lets the bottom half of that jersey fall again, running his hands back down over his chest to reach for his cock.

And Tetsu hardly ever moans, no, he’s too quiet for that, but he does gasp softly as he rubs the fabric of the jersey into his chest—against his nipples, Daiki realizes, belatedly—and _fuck_ , that just about does it for him; if he doesn’t get off right _now_ he thinks he might literally die. So Daiki starts to move his hand, watching Tetsu do the same, and they’re looking at each other only not quite; Tetsu’s gaze settles somewhere near Daiki’s groin, occasionally wandering back up to his face, and Daiki’s staring at his cock too, but also sometimes at his throat, long and slender and pale, and at the sweat trickling down what he can see of Tetsu’s chest where the collar of the jersey dips low on it, especially with the way Tetsu’s bunching the fabric up in his fist... and it’s not much of a surprise at all when he finds orgasm (or when his orgasm finds him)—he comes in spurts across the floor of the gym, jizzing, desperately, like he hasn’t jerked off for a month.

Afterwards he watches, through a haze of barely-sated lust, as Tetsu muffles his voice into the palm of his other hand and squeezes fingers over the head of his cock like he’s milking it as he comes, too. Daiki hates using a word like he would for a girl, because Tetsu isn’t a girl at all—but he’s beautiful every time, the way his back arches and the way his fingers move over himself, the way his lips move silently and form the word _Daiki_ like a prayer, like it’s the only thing he knows.

It’s a couple minutes before either of them finds the breath to speak. Tetsu blinks at the sticky mess on his fingers, and then wipes it off on the front of Daiki’s jersey. Daiki opens his mouth to complain, and then shuts it again with a sound like a sigh. That thing needs a wash, anyway—what’s a little of Tetsu’s come on top of everything else?

“You said no touching,” Daiki comments, finally, his voice low and a little raspy.

“Yourself doesn’t count,” Tetsu replies, in a similarly lazy voice, stretching his arms out over his head.

“I’ll have to remember that one.”

“Today’s terms were one-use only,” Tetsu declares.

Daiki snorts, but halfway, despite himself, it turns into a smile. “You’re so damn difficult.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated!


End file.
